


Beauty to Rival a Silmaril

by Siana



Series: Not all that Glitters is Lost [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Finrod deserves his own tag, M/M, Spanking, ambiguous clothing, for being devastatingly beautiful, if this were a 90's anime, maglor would have already died of excessive nosebleed, this is pretty much just the author indulging herself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 14:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30040158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siana/pseuds/Siana
Summary: An alternate take of the "remember that time your mother caught you using her cosmestics?" story Turgon references in A Spanner in the Works. This time, Maglor does more than just write a song to his honor.Or: Finrod tries makeup and Maglor loses the ability to speak because of it.
Relationships: Finrod Felagund | Findaráto/Maglor | Makalaurë
Series: Not all that Glitters is Lost [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2206413
Comments: 9
Kudos: 13





	Beauty to Rival a Silmaril

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Mertiya (once again) for getting me into something I didn't know I needed before, namely this ship.  
> At least I learned to use my ä key for this one.

The lecture had been intense. Eärwen had been none too pleased when she had found her eldest son had tried some of her cosmetics without asking. And that truly been the sticking point. He should have asked and then she would have gladly shown him to apply it properly.

Findaráto suffers through the lecture with equanimity. His ammё is right after all, he should have asked and this lecture is a small price to pay, after all once it is done Eärwen sits him down in front of her vanity table and walks him through the different powders and tools.

It doesn’t take long until Artanis joins them and then someone - he cannot remember who - has the idea to make them all look the same, _and why don’t we surprise atar?_ \- and then Eärwen pulls out some old garments of hers and Findaráto doesn’t remember the last time he had laughed this hard. Of course, Eärwen’s clothes do not fit her two children, who’ve both followed their father in tallness, so Artanis has to sacrifice some of her robes as well. It is a struggle too, to find a dress that will fit Findaráto _and_ hide his rather tellingly different shape and in the end they have to drape a cloak over him to create some well-placed shadows.

The result is quite stunning. The house of Arafinwё is known for its fairness, a fact that Findaráto has used to his advantage more than once, but none of that quite compares to this. Somehow Eärwen had used her skills with brush and powder to lend a distinct feminine cast to Findaráto’s features and then did the reverse to herself and Artanis, giving them both harsher angles. Now they have met somewhere in the middle, three fair, golden-haired elves of indistinct genders in flowing robes of silver and gold. 

Findaráto looks at himself in the mirror and then his ammё and sister and finds to his satisfaction that even as much as he knows himself, he is hard-pressed to find a distinguishing feature between them. The effect is ruined, of course, once they stand next to each other. He and Artanis are roughly of like height, with him a few scant fingers taller but they both tower over Eärwen. But then she pulls a pair of frankly outrageous slippers from a chest in her wardrobe and suddenly she is not that much smaller any more. It’s a good thing that he ended up in some of Artanis’s robes, so the extra length serves to hide the heels from showing. He supposes, his ammё really does know what she’s about.

Arafinwё went out to meet with his brother Nolofinwё on some business or another, and the time of his return is not certain. So they hide at top of the grand staircase in the entrance hall, ducking behind the flower pots and peeking out every so often to much hushed giggling. At some point Aikanáro comes to investigate the noise, and Findaráto will never forget his face when he beholds the three of them. Findaráto winks at him. Aikanáro rolls his eyes and retreats back into his room, muttering under his breath.

And then, at last, Arafinwё arrives, stepping through the doorway, still talking to one of his retainers. They get up while he is not looking and stand on top of the stairs, Artanis in the middle, Findaráto on the left and Eärwen on the right. Arafinwё turns at the noise and then stares for a moment, clearly surprised, but then his face pulls into a radiant smile and he bows to all three of them, one after the other. The retainer hides his laughter behind a hand, excusing himself quickly.

“You may not enter ere you solve a riddle,” Eärwen says, voice pitched low to sound closer to her son, pulling it off rather well.

“Which one of us is your fair wife. Answer correctly and you shall be rewarded,” Artanis intones, equally as low.

Findaráto, for his part, has to bite his tongue not to give the game away by laughing. Artanis elbows him and he quickly masters himself. “Guess wrong and you will be cursed,” he says voice pitched high to match his ammё and sister.

“Oh? And how should I be cursed?” Arafinwё inquires, perfectly straight-faced. Artanis makes a high-pitched sound in the back of her throat, fighting her own laughter and this time Findaráto elbows her. Even Eärwen’s lips wobble with suppressed mirth.

“Do you expect failure?” Findaráto says, managing to sound at least somewhat regal.

Arafinwё raises one perfect eyebrow. “Of course not, I would know my wife anywhere at any time.” Except he looks at Findaráto for a disconcertingly long time when he says it, as if he actually thought him Eärwen.

“Prove it,” Eärwen’s challenges. Arafinwё smiles and steps forward, reaching out a hand to her and she takes it, smiling now too.

“How could I not know you,” he says quietly and kisses the tip of her nose. “Of course, you two elbowing each other was fairly obvious,” he says with a side-eyed glance at his children.

Artanis promptly elbows Findaráto again and he gives an outraged yelp, more annoyed that she was faster than truly pained. Laughing, Eärwen pulls them all into an embrace.

~~~

After receiving his reward - a strand from each of their hair braided into a charm - Arafinwё suggests they all go visit Tirion. There is a distinct twinkle in his eyes, telling of just how much he enjoys the idea.

Well as he might, for the effect is astounding. Findaráto is used to attention and admirers, used to receiving gifts and admiring looks in equal measure. But none of that compares to this. Elves stop and stare, seemingly forgetting their purpose. One particularly unlucky _nér_ actually walks into a stone column, too distracted by their beauty to pay attention to his path.

Findaráto basks in the attention, preening more than a little bit, just as his sister does. Only Eärwen maintains some decorum, walking one the arm of her husband, but she is smiling faintly at the antics of her children. Arafinwё, who Findaráto is certain is enjoying this just as much as them, maintains perfect composure, nodding at friends and acquaintances in passing, as if he isn’t in the company of the three loveliest elves in Valinor.

They run into Maitimo and Findekáno on the way, the two of them walking a very deliberate distance from each other that fools exactly no one. Maitimo takes on look at them and blushes deeply. Findekáno is better at hiding his reaction, but even he can’t hide the faint blush at the tips of his ears. They exchange polite greetings, make the requisite noises about visiting sooner later - purely for appearance’s sake in Maitimo’s case - there is no way that Fëanáro would tolerate a visit from his least maligned brother. But Maitimo is, of course welcome, and pledges to visit soon, studiously avoiding to look at anyone but Arafinwë. Findekáno eagerly promises to visit with Turukáno soon, a prospect that fills Findaráto with quiet joy, for he and Turukáno have long been friends.

At last, they say they farewells and go their separate ways. “Oh, wait until your brother sees this,” Findaráto overhears Findekáno saying to Maitimo, as they walk away. Findaráto cannot hear Maitimo’s reply, as they drift out of hearing range. He wonders also, what Maitimo’s brother would say. Only one of them, but this one very much in particular.

He keeps looking, but so far he had not spied Makalaurë anywhere. Perhaps it is better this way. He does not think he could take it if Makalaurë were one of the elves unaffected. Not everyone’s tastes run toward the same, and Findaráto had long since harbored the hope that he would match Makalaurë’s. To have this hope, as faint as it may be, shattered, would be quite devastating.

But he cannot spy him, no matter how much he searches. The disappointment cuts deep, for he had hoped to show off to Makalaurë, had even dreamed a little of maybe rendering him speechless, or better yet, inspiring him to finally put into words what Findaráto had long wished him to say. But he does not find him.

~~~

Makalaurë finds Findaráto alone on one of the balconies off the gallery overlooking the main plaza of Tirion. He stands with his lower arms on the balustrade, looking down on the plaza and elves below. Even with Findekáno’s warning, he is not prepared for the sight. Findaráto has always been beautiful, but now the features of his face have softened slightly, gained a subtle roundness and his hair is flowing freely, unbraided in the way of the _nissi_. He is limned by Telperion’s light, gold wreathed in silver and it punches the breath right from Makalaurë’s chest.

He stands rooted to the spot, trapped by this dream-like vision until the frantic beating of his heart pulls his mind back into awareness. Then he sinks to his knees, not very much of his own volition, but Findaráto is just so _breathtaking_. Makalaurë closes his eyes and sings. There are many songs dedicated to Findaráto’s beauty, at least half of which have been penned by he himself, but none of those come to mind. Truly, there are no words to express what he feels, so his song is wordless, only shaped around the emotions welling from his heart.

When he opens his eyes again, Findaráto has turned, startled, eyes wide and gray, the shadows cutting his collar bones into sharp angles. Makalaurë falters. Findaráto looks… Telperion’s light is like a halo upon him, a mantle of spun silver. He looks otherworldly and ethereal and yet sharply solid, as if his beauty were a knife sharp enough to cut.

Findaráto’s expression softens, his temples draw into faint lines of confusion. “Makalaurë?” he asks. His voice is no longer pitched to match his sister’s and ammё’s and Makalaurë is struck anew by how sweet and lovely he sounds. He has spent many a night envisioning what that voice could sound like if left to Makalaurë’s ministrations. He swallows, desire thick in his throat, like a sudden drum beat in his veins. “What are you _doing_?” Sweet Findaráto sounds exasperated and he rushes forward, arms reaching and Makalaurë freezes. This close, he can smell the perfume on Findaráto, a sweet faintly lemony scent and the shadows have vanished from his face, hitting Makalaurë with all its loveliness at once.

Findaráto grasps his arm and pulls him up. “It is very sweet of you to serenade me,” he says, “but please come off the ground. The stone must be cold.” It is cold, Makalaurë thinks distantly. But he could not have said so before. He follows because it is Findaráto who guides him and there is never any question that he would follow his cousin, no matter where the road may lead.

“Are you quite all right?” Findaráto asks, voice now dyed with concern. He leans in closer to peer at Makalaurë’s face and Makalaurë’s entire being stutters. Findaráto has always been beautiful beyond compare, but like this he is like the light of Laurelun itself, sharp and beautiful and too much to bear up close. “Ohhh,” Findaráto breathes and too late Makalaurë realizes that all of his thoughts had been written clearly on his face. He jerks backward, heart beating in panic, but Findaráto catches his face with his hands and Makalaurë stills instantly, caught by Findaráto’s just as he had been the first time he had laid eyes upon him.

“Ohhhh,” Findaráto sighs again and leans closer until their foreheads are touching. “Makalaurë,” he says almost reverently. “Is this how you see me?”

“Umm,” says Makalaurë quite inanely.

“I had no idea,” Findaráto murmurs. He reaches up and carefully tugs a stray strand of hair behind Makalaurë’s ear, his fingers catching slightly on the pointed tip. “If I had known, I would have done this earlier.”

“Hng-mf?” It should be shameful, how Makalaurë - renowned for his voice above all - cannot quite wrangle his thoughts into a coherent sentence. Findaráto is so close and his lips are pulled into a faint smile and his eyes glitter almost wickedly in Telperion’s cool light. He has spent so much time, dreaming of his fair cousin, has composed countless odes to his beauty, his wit, that wicked sharp tongue that is so rarely ever glimpsed. He has even written a few scandalous verses to Findaráto’s _hröa_ and what he wished to do to it. But none of those come to mind now, all the honeyed words and praise have fled to leave only the overwhelming presence of _Findaráto_ behind.

“Káno,” says Findaráto, “is there something you wish to say to me?”

Makalaurë swallows again. He still cannot quite make sense of any words or meanings, but he has been asked a question by Findaráto, so he says, mind still so full of his cousin, “Findaráto.”

“Yes, my sweet Káno?” There is a wicked glint in his eyes and he picks up a strand of his hair and twirls it around his fingers, biting his lips as he does. Makalaurë quite suddenly realizes that Findaráto knows exactly what he is doing.

“You shameless villain,” he says, outraged but smiling. Findaráto laughs, delighted and all the words come rushing back, all the verses and songs he had written, all to praise just one _nér_ \- never mind that no song, however epic it may be, could ever hope to do Findarátohim justice. “If you were not the most breathtaking creature, I have ever laid eyes upon, I should put you over my knee,” says Makalaurë, quite daring.

Findaráto at last steps back, only enough to look at Makalaurë’s face. “A shame then that I am such a breathtaking creature,” he says. “For I would not mind if you put me over your knee.”

Makalaurë is almost left speechless again, but this time he catches himself ere he stumbles, finding comfort in the familiar pattern of verbally sparing with his favorite cousin. “Careful,” he warns. “I have not yet decided if I shall use my hand or something else.” Entranced he watches as the most delightful blush spreads to his cousin’s ears.

Findaráto seems to be struck by sudden shyness. “It would not matter, if it came from you. Anything you give me, I’d gladly take.” His voice is soft and his eyes flick up to make eye contact only to quickly draw away. It is perhaps not surprising, thinks Makalaurë. Findaráto is fairly young and cannot have much experience. He is certainly charming and he has likely gleaned a lot in seduction from either Maitimo or Findekáno, obvious as they are in their supposed secret marriage. But he is so much younger than Makalaurë and Makalaurë himself knows little, lest it be sifted from songs.

“Findaráto,” he says softly and then thinks better of it, “Ingoldo.” Findaráto’s blush deepens and now at last he looks at Makalaurë.

His gaze is open and vulnerable and there underneath is that same deep longing that had been housed in Makalaurë’s heart for so long. “I was not sure,” he says at length. “I thought when I gleaned your thoughts that all my dreams had come true. But then I doubted.” He smiles, perhaps a little wobbly. “How could it be me after all?”

“I could ask the same,” Makalaurë says and now it is his turn to rest the palm of his hand against Findaráto’s cheek. “I have pined for you so long. The songs I have written in your honor.” He smiles ruefully. “The sleepless nights I have had.” He drops his voice on the last part, giving his voice a faint huskiness and to his satisfaction he sees Findaráto’s lips fall open slightly.

“Why did you not say anything?” He says, sounding just a little bit breathless.

“Why didn’t you?”

Findaráto groans, “I was terrified. What would you say if the baby cousin that always clung to your shirttails suddenly confessed to you. You saw me naked so many times when I was younger, how could I have asked you for…” He falters then and then helplessly shrugs. It’s oddly endearing to see his otherwise so shameless cousin being struck by shyness.

“I would have thought myself dreaming,” says Makalaurë honestly. “But I was the same. To me you are the most beautiful elf I have ever seen. The most wondrous and lovely and smart of all the elves in all of Valinor.” He’s almost shocked to find his voice and hands are trembling, overcome with emotions. Findaráto’s hand comes up to cover his and Makalaurë twists his hand around to twine their fingers together.

“I suppose that makes us both fools,” Findaráto says softly.

“That just means we will have to make up for all the lost time, does it not?”

Findaráto’s eyes widen, and then his lips pull into that soft, wicked smile that Makalaurë loves so much. “Hm, I think I want to hear all those songs you have written about me.”

Makalaurë blushes. “That would take a while. There are a lot.”

“Oh? And yet I have not heard a single one of them? All in the name of my beauty and you have withheld them from me. Maybe I should put _you_ over my knee instead.”

Makalaurë lifts Findaráto’s hand up to his lips to press a kiss to his knuckles. “I cannot say the thought excites me as much as it did you, but if it is what you wished, I would do it.”

Findaráto shudders. “No need. The thought of hurting you brings me little joy. The thought of you hurting me however…” His tongue flicks out to lick a long stripe along the back of Makalaurë’s hand.

Makalaurë exhales shakily. “Then we are of like mind. I have written an entire ode to how lovely your skin would look reddened by my marks,” he confesses daringly and is rewarded by Findaráto making a low, needy sound at the back of his throat.

“One day you will have to sing me those songs of yours. And then we can reenact them. Or you might just skip the extra steps and tell me what you would like to do to me.” It is a shame that Findaráto is actually taller than he is, not by much but it is enough for Makalaurë to have to look up just slightly. He supposes that just means he will have to make Findaráto kneel for him at some point. He grabs Findaráto by the collar and pulls him closer, taking little care to be gentle. Findaráto follows all too willingly, a soft sigh falling from his lips.

“For starters, I want to kiss you,” says Makalaurë, voice husky. Findaráto does as he is asked, and at last presses his sweet, lovely lips against Makalaurë’s. He almost can’t believe it. That after all this time, the endless longing and dreaming, he is finally here in this moment with Findaráto in his arms and kissing - kissing! - him. Findaráto tastes lovely, like sweet fruit with just a hint of spice and then Findaráto bites his lips playfully and Makalaurë gasps. Findaráto licks inside and winds a hand into his hair and just like that, all reason is lost.

Makalaurë turns them around so that he can press Findaráto against the wall, dragging his hands all over his body, catching on seams and lacing and then, blessedly, he finally finds a way inside and under. Findaráto breath hitches, body shuddering as Makalaurë smoothes the palms of his hands against the planes of his chest.

“Káno,” he moans, “please.”

“Anything,” Makalaurë gasps. “Anything you want.”

“I want _you._ However you may have me.”

Makalaurë groans. He actually has to pull back and take a moment to wrestle his body back under control. Findaráto is willing of course, but he would not take their first time on an open balcony for all to see. He does some quick calculations in his head and settles on his own home as the closer one. Some more calculation to figure out the best route while avoiding all his brothers and then he can finally hoist Findaráto up into his arms.

Findaráto makes a surprised noise but wraps his strong legs around Makalaurë’s waist and squeezes. And oh he can _feel_ Findaráto, thick and hard against his belly and when he pulls him closer Findaráto moans again. He carries Findaráto through the arch and onto the stone gallery that surrounds the central plaza.

The plaza is filled with elves and Findaráto pushes at him, half laughing, half moaning. “Let me down, you oaf. Do you want all of Tirion to see us?”

Makalaurë groans again. He had forgotten. How could he have forgotten. There is no point in charting a course avoiding cousins and brothers alike, if he carries Findaráto past everyone else. Oh but it is difficult to set him down and let go, when Findaráto feels so good and right against him. He wants to touch and feel Findaráto, wants to make him shiver and moan with pleasure. And it doesn’t help that Findaráto looks radiant. He is flushed, his hair is mussed and the lacing at the front of his dress has come apart most scandalously.

“Where were you even going?”

Makalaurë laughs helplessly. He had forgotten, more than merely the circumstances in his haste. He runs a hand through his hair, trying in vain to find some semblance of calm. “Somewhere undisturbed. My room in my father’s palace.” Which, now that he thinks about it may be closest but also not the place where Findaráto’s presence - dressed as he is - were easy to explain. And while Fёanaro has less to say about his youngest half-brother, he certainly would not approve of any coupling between their lines.

They look at each other then and Makalaurë can see the frustrated desire echoed in Findaráto’s face. “I don’t know where to go,” he says helplessly. He has dreamed of this moment so many times, but he had never given much thought to the surroundings. It had always seemed too distant a thing to to happen, for it to ever matter.

Findaráto seemingly comes to a decision. “Very well. My room it is then.”

“Findaráto-”

Findaráto catches his hand and nuzzles his face into the palm, sending sparks of heat through Makalaurë. “It is fine. No one should be home and even if they were, I do not mind.” He looks at Makalaurë almost challengingly, as if to dare him to gainsay him.

Makalaurë smiles, utterly defeated. “I do not mind if your family knows of me.” He gives a helpless shrug. “I cannot promise they will approve of your choice, but whatever they will say, I will not give you up.”

“There is nothing to disapprove of,” says Findaráto fiercely. “Least of all for you are my choice above all.”

Makalaurë does not say the many things he has told himself countless times. That he is not worthy of Findaráto, being Fёanaro’s least worthy son, not when there are so many other, _better_ choices out there. But Findaráto would chide him if he said it, perhaps rightly so. Still, for Findaráto to have chosen him, for him to be so staunchly defensive of his choice - Makalaurë could have wept for joy.

Findaráto had spoken true and Arafinwё’s mansion near the outskirts of Tirion lies quiet and empty. Makalaurë had been here before, often even to visit Findaráto, but those visits had been innocent. They had played music together and if Makalaurë’s eyes had lingered too long on Findaráto’s fingers on the harp or his lips shaping words into songs, then that had just been his appreciation of his cousin’s musical skills and nothing else.

They have taken to holding hands on their way over, and now Findaráto is drawing him into the inner parts of the mansion, towards his rooms. Makalaurë’s heart is beating fast and hungry, his excitement a greedy hum under his skin. He drags Findaráto into his arms, the moment the door of his rooms closes behind them, tilting his head up for a needy kiss. Of all that he has sung about, nothing can compare to the truth.

Findaráto makes a soft little noise and then he is pushing impatiently at Makalaurë, towards the inner rooms where his bed is. Makalaurë follows all too willingly. It’s a shame to divest Findaráto of his lovely garments, but Makalaurë is appeased easily by the much more lovely treasure underneath. It’s not the first time he has seen Findaráto naked, if anything, his cousin likes to undress way too much, but it is the first time it is solely for _him._

“I’ve dreamed of this;” whispers Findaráto against his lips. He is entirely naked, pressed against Makalaurë’s still clothed chest, rubbing himself against him. Makalaurë cannot quite manage a response. He reaches for the clasps of his own garments, eager to join Findaráto in his nakedness, but Findaráto catches his fingers ere he can. “Please,” he says softly, shyly even “will you not put me over your knee?”

Makalaurë groans, his erection twitching eagerly. Findaráto is still rubbing against him, his own hardness dragging trails of wetness into the leather of Makalaurë’s breeches. He is flushed and warm and his breath comes in little hitching gasps. Makalaurë grips him by the arm and drags him to the bed none to gently. Findaráto sinks onto his lap willingly enough, wiggling for effect until Makalaurë has to bite the palm of his hand to keep from spilling right there.

“Just- tell me if you need me to stop,” he orders and waits until Findaráto has nodded his assent, ere he places his hand on his buttocks. It is smooth and firm under his touch and he can feel minute tremors wracking his cousin. He lifts his palm and brings it down, nothing more than a light smack.

“Don’t be _nice_ ,” Findaráto hisses.

“Hm, since when is this about what _you_ want?” Makalaurë asks, pinching the skin of Findaráto’s ass. Findaráto yelps and then retaliates by grinding down against Makalaurë’s leg, his belly rubbing against Makalaurë’s own erection. “I ought to tie you up,” Makalaurë muses,as he begins applying light swats to Findaráto’s ass, slowly building up the pace and increasing in strength.

Findaráto sighs, going limp against him. Makalaurë makes sure to keep his strikes varied, not to fall into any rhythm Findaráto could get used to. “You would look lovely with some rope on you,” Makalaurë says, watching with pleasure as his skin slowly turns red. It is mesmerizing to see how Findaráto slowly falls apart, going from soft little gasps to shameless moaning in a matter of a few well-placed strikes. He does not need to check to know that Findaráto is achingly hard.

“You- hng. Will have- to try it- ai! some time.” Findaráto gasps between strikes. He’s shaking now, with barely contained lust and Makalaurë deeply regrets that he cannot glimpse his face from this angle.

“I shall,” he says hoarsely. At last, he ceases his onslaught and rests his hand on Findaráto’s abused skin. Findaráto shudders.

“Káno,” he moans, body jerking as he is desperately trying to find some friction. Makalaurë has to close his eyes and take a breath. It would be so easy to come undone like this, with Findaráto in his lap, skin marked by Makalaurë’s own hand. “Káno, _please_ ,” Findaráto gasps on a broken sob.

“Oil?” Makalaurë has the wherewithal to ask. Findaráto feebly flails his hand into the general direction of his bedside. Makalaurë gathers him up into his arms, unwilling to be parted and bodily carries him over to the wooden bedside drawer. It’s good that Makalaurë has built up strength from lugging his larger harps around, for Findaráto is little help, clinging to him as he does and Makalaurë has to lift him with one arm while the other is busy rooting through Findaráto’s bedside supply. There are some _interesting_ things in there, but he doesn’t linger once he has located the bottle of oil. That will be a matter for later.

He tips them both forward on the bed, until he is hovering over Findaráto and now at last he gets a look at his face. Findaráto is breathtaking. There is color high on his cheeks, eyes large and wet and his lips are red and swollen from where he’s bitten them - or where Makalaurë had kissed him senseless earlier? “Ingo,” he breathes, stunned. Of all the songs he had written, noe had ever come close to capturing Findaráto’s enchanting beauty.

Findaráto looks up at him with such _love_ written on his face. “Káno,” he says again and Makalaurë doesn’t think he will ever tire of being called that by Findaráto. He sits up, still straddling his cousin and makes quick work of his tunic. His breeches are a different matter, but with Findaráto’s eager help he quickly divests himself of them. He’s always been rather shy when it came to nudity, he had grown up surrounded by tall, beautiful _neri_ after all, but all of that vanishes in the face of Findaráto’s pure adoration. He runs his hands up Makalaurë’s chest, a deep hunger in his gaze.

Makalaurë leans forward to pull Findaráto into another kiss, tangling one hand into Findaráto’s hair. The other he uses to coat a generous amount of oil on Findaráto’s length. Findaráto gasps and moans into the kiss, eagerly fucking himself into Makalaurë’s fist. He breaks away eventually, face flushed and utterly wrecked. “Stop playing around,” he orders and Makalaurë is all too happy to obey. He sits up again, carefully aligning himself.

“What are you doing?” Findaráto asks with confusion. Makalaurë freezes.

“You don’t like it?” he asks, suddenly realizing that he had just gone ahead and _assumed,_ but he hadn’t actually asked-

“No. I mean I do like it. I just thought-” Findaráto looks up at him. “Because you spanked me, that you would-” he looks down again, red dusting his cheeks, his hands gesturing between them.

“We can do that,” says Makalaurë. It’s not his preference, but if it’s Findaráto he doesn’t think he’d truly mind.

“That’s not what I meant,” Findaráto says and then laughs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin the mood. I was just so sure that you’d want to fuck me, so it caught me by surprise.” He smiles then, wickedly and tugs on Makalaurë’s cock, drawing a shocked gasp from him. “I’d gladly take you, make no mistake. But the thought of you riding me?” Findaráto gives him a heated gaze from under his lashes and licks his lips.

Makalaurë smirks, “well then I’d better get on with it.” He’s done this often enough with wooden implements he’d snuck out the night market to buy, so he doesn’t really need much in the way of direction. All for the better, as he can watch Findaráto’s expression as he slowly pushes down, taking that thick length all the way to the hilt.

Findaráto’s mouth falls open and his breath hitches and by the time Makalaurë is fully seated, he’s panting. “You know what’s- nhg- missing?”

“A gag in your pretty mouth?” Makalaurë suggests.

Findaráto shudders. “That too. Ai, don’t move yet or I’ll spill immediately.” Makalaurë obeys, but he does clench his muscles once, twice and Findaráto’s back arches off the bed. “You fiend,” he gasps.

Makalaurë exhales a shaky breath. “You were saying?” He tries for teasing but it doesn’t quite work with how breathless his voice sounds. He still cannot quite believe it that it’s _Findaráto_ who’s inside of him. His beautiful cousin whom he had pined for so long and now-

“One day-” Findaráto pants, “you shall bend me over and fuck me-” he has to break off for a moment because Makalaurë has clenched again. “Ai! And I will feel you against the marks you’ve left on me.” He finishes and oh, that does it for Makalaurë. He cannot wait any longer. He lifts himself up by leg strength alone, as far as he can without Findaráto slipping out and then sinks down again, swallowing everything Findaráto has to offer. He could not have said which one of them moaned louder. He does it again and again until his leg muscles burn with the strain and then he folds forward, bracing himself on his forearms so he can bring his and Findaráto’s faces together.

It’s easier like this to fuck himself on Findaráto’s cock and he does so with abandon, laying sloppy, open-mouthed kisses onto Findaráto’s lips. Findaráto meets him eagerly, thrusting his hips upwards with bruising force. And then Findaráto tenses, arms clamping around Makalaurë to hold him still and he lets out a low, keening moan, almost a scream and Makalaurë can feel his insides flood with heat. Eventually, Findaráto’s grip loosens and Makalaurë sits up, legs shaking. He’s still hard, but all it takes is a few sharp tugs and then he’s coming too, spilling all over his hand and Findaráto’s chest.

Findaráto sighs, a happy little smile on his lips, as he reaches up a hand and brushes his fingers against Makalaurë’s lips. “Káno, you are beautiful,” he says, voice raw with emotion. “I love you.”

Makalaurë’s breath hitches. He feels tears well in his eyes and his voice is shaking when he responds, “me too. I love you too, Ingo.” Findaráto’s smile widens, brilliant and beautiful and Makalaurë thinks not even the Silmaril could compare to its radiance.


End file.
